IN A SWIFT MOTION, the pliers severed the little finger of Will's right hand. The cut was clean, merciless—like a household guillotine—and bone and flesh separated in a single precise movement. The crack of the bone echoed through the small cell like a hammer striking metal.
Will immediately felt a searing pain shoot up his arm, sharper than anything he had ever experienced. Blood poured freely, warm and relentless, making his hand tremble and staining the cold floor with crimson patches that seemed to pulse in rhythm with his heartbeat.
During the first minutes after the amputation, the beer cans served as an anesthetic, his blood dancing out of his body to the sound of — The Battle of Evermore,— and before passing out from shock, he swore he would never listen to Led Zeppelin again.
The crushed cans scattered in the corner of the cell had been swallowed like courage pills—automatic gulps meant to smother the scream. The music, an absurd soundtrack to barbarity, flooded Will's mind in fragments; the strange melody mixed with the wet sound of the hemorrhage.
Before his vision faded to black, he repeated a promise made at the edge of despair: never again would he allow that sound to dull his instincts—never again Led Zeppelin, never again that cursed playlist that had accompanied the moment he lost control of his life.
Will woke hours later. His hand throbbed, and the wound seemed cauterized.
When he opened his eyes, a constant buzzing hammered at his temples. The pain now came in waves, deeper, as if something had burned the flesh beneath the skin. The tissue around the stump felt firm, as though someone had sealed the wound by miracle—or by the deliberate choice of his tormentor.
The warmth of blood had been replaced by a coldness trapped inside the mutilated limb.
He checked the time. Despite the darkness, it was already past nine in the morning.
The watch on his wrist marked the hours with indifferent precision. The weak light filtering through a crack was not enough to illuminate the cell, yet the display confirmed that the day had advanced. It was an absurd consolation: the world outside kept turning even though his finger had been torn away.
He searched the prison for his captor, but he was alone and decided to inspect the locks. Instinct pushed him into action: there was no time left for despair, and if he wanted to survive, he would need to escape. His eyes examined every fastening point, every fold of metal, every exposed screw. His movements, slow because of the pain, became precise as adrenaline took over.
They were still open...
For a moment, the simplicity of that fact confused him.
How?
What kind of trap left the locks themselves unsecured?
Curiosity and suspicion mingled with cautious relief: if there was a flaw, perhaps there was also a way out.
He removed them from the bars, certain there had to be a hidden mechanism somewhere. Reaching upward, he felt along the outside of the ceiling and discovered a metal protrusion, forcing it outward.
The tips of his fingers searched through the darkness—fingers that were no longer whole—and found an irregularity. The metal projection was cold and rigid, a small mechanical secret waiting to be discovered.
With effort, he levered it free. The groan of metal was as sweet as hope. It was a small lever. He pulled it down and heard a click. He pushed the bars, and the hinges creaked.
He was free...
The click was final. When the gate gave way, a faint draft entered the cell carrying the smell of mildew and something else—perhaps the promise of the outside world. The opening was not wide, but enough for him to squeeze through.
He's not as smart as he thinks he is... he thought.
The sentence came almost as a challenge, a silent declaration that his tormentor had underestimated his prisoner's intelligence.
Will smiled, a bitter contraction of the lips, and repeated the words like a spell that restored his strength. A sloping staircase led toward a trapdoor. Each step creaked beneath the weight of neglect. Every movement upward was a small victory against the fear that had once paralyzed him.
It must be the exit...
The idea rose in his mind like a beacon. The air coming from above smelled of freedom—or perhaps of a cruel promise. He took a deep breath, climbed upward, and pushed.
Nothing.
His sweaty hands slipped against the metal. The door refused to open, and frustration gave way to terror. Freedom seemed to slip through his fingers—now mutilated ones.
He was trapped in the — basement of horrors,— and panic seized him. That man was a psychopath. He could carve him apart piece by piece and keep parts of his body as trophies. His imagination conjured scenes he did not want to see—drawers filled with physical memories, grotesque photographs, collections of human remains.
I need a weapon... he concluded.
Searching the table, he found a miniature sword. He tucked it into his sock and hid it beneath his pant leg. The blade was not much, but the feel of metal gave him a new sense of confidence. Hidden against his skin, it became a secret source of strength and determination.
A wooden cabinet in the opposite corner caught his attention. Inside were glass jars of different sizes. He approached and barely managed to suppress a scream.
There were five hearts floating in thick liquid.
The horror became tangible. The organs drifted inside the jars like trophies displayed in a showcase. Each one was pale and lifeless, yet its vessels remained visible, as though they still wished to speak.
The sight stole Will's breath and made the room spin.
They must be human...
The certainty was terrifying. Their shape, size, and texture all pointed toward the most dreadful truth: these were remnants of lives that had been violently taken.
Cold sweat ran across his face. His body trembled involuntarily as fear overwhelmed him.
Either I kill this bastard, or I die here...
The thought became a vow of survival.
Will returned to the cell, closed himself inside, and sat down. He forced himself to regain composure. Exhaustion bit at him for a moment, but quickly transformed into focus. He needed to conserve energy, plan his attack, and wait for the right moment.
I have to be fast...
Every second counted.
Then he heard footsteps approaching.
It's him...
The sound carried a familiar presence. A voice he recognized would soon confirm it.
THE HINGES CREAKED and bright light flooded the room. Will avoided looking up.
The opening door unleashed a harsh beam of light. He turned his eyes away, unwilling to look at the face of the man who had imprisoned him.
— My guest is still here?
It was the voice of the wounded man who had once begged for help before the show.
The footsteps came closer. Will slipped his hand beneath his pant leg and gripped the hidden weapon.
— You're free. Your father accepted my proposal and has already fulfilled his part of the bargain, — LaVey said, dragging a suitcase by its handle.
— You're lying.
— Why would I do that?
LaVey looked almost proud of him.
— I'm going to make sure everything is here before I take you on a little trip.
He switched on a lamp and opened the suitcase on the table. Inside were five wrapped packages. He picked up the smallest one.
— What do you think is in here, my boy? — he asked excitedly.
— A child's skull.
— A morbid guess. I'd bet it's a crystal ball — LaVey replied as he removed the bubble wrap.
— Was I right?
LaVey shook his head.
— And what about this one? Care to guess?
— A prehistoric LP record — the teenager replied.
Will tried to laugh, but only a dry sound emerged.
— I like you. You have a sense of humor. If your life depended on the correct answer, you'd be doomed. This is the Sigillum Dei—the Seal of God—one of Master Dee's greatest treasures.
LaVey pronounced the words as though unveiling an archaeological relic, his eyes gleaming with greed. The name echoed through the room like a shard of glass: Sigillum Dei—a secret tied to John Dee, a promise of something beyond human understanding, now resting in the hands of a madman.
He quickly unwrapped the object and placed it beneath the light. It measured roughly twenty-three centimeters in diameter and four centimeters thick.
LaVey fell silent, smiling. Slowly he caressed the wax surface. Inside the outer circle were engraved, concentrically, a heptagon, an interwoven heptagram, a smaller heptagon, and at the center an interwoven pentagram. The intricate geometric design was filled with countless letters, numbers, words, and symbols.
LaVey felt as though he were touching the realm of the gods.
Nothing else mattered.
He closed his eyes, wanting to preserve that sensation forever, when he noticed movement behind him.
It must be the angel Uriel... he thought.
But a chill ran through him, followed by a violent impact and a burst of pain.
He had just been stabbed.